


Bare His Heart

by Tjerra14



Series: Rifts [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Apostates, Early Game, Gen, Loss, Maker horses are weird, POV Minor Character, animosity turning to respect, did I mention rain, does Ferelden have a standing army, even more swearing, horse rant, in the long run that is, mage trouble, more rain, or even friendship?, overly long one shot, painful memories, post-The Threat remains, pre-Champions of the Just, probably slightly non-canon, references to DA:O, rogue templars, some spiders, the Storm Coast experience, the most rain, tons of rain, travelling Thedas, welp that got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 09:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20387539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tjerra14/pseuds/Tjerra14
Summary: Lieutenant Daron "Rabbit" Amiot joined the Inquisition during its early days and expected to spend the war chasing down apostates in the name of order in the Hinterlands. However, when a patrol goes wrong and both his captain and a comrade die under unclear circumstances, he's re-assigned to the Herald's personal guard to accompany her on her travels and protect her if need be.On their way to the Storm Coast, he soon finds himself struggling - with reservations, trust, ideas of loyalty, and the secret that brought him here in the first place, and could be his undoing ...





	1. The Herald

**Author's Note:**

  * For [philliam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philliam/gifts).

> While working on the next chapter for the main fanfic, "All Things Desolate And Forgotten", which has Imira travelling with her personal guard, I realised I wanted to get to know her soldiers better, especially the one who was originally more or less of a joke - (nick)named Rabbit for the sake of a metaphor, his full name being Daron Amiot (which is derived from Amiodaron, an antiarrhythmic, because a friend and me decided to use some of those med names/terms for naming Dragon Age characters).  
Initially I only intended it to be a short exploration of the relationship he has to Imira, his superior, but while working on it turned more or less into an exploration of his character instead, with the bonus of the freeing experience of finally not having to write her from her perspective, which was also helpful in fleshing out her character. 
> 
> Also, it was definitely helpful to avoid the post-exam hole full of nothingness, and a bit of Netflix.

Now her hand is raised

A sword to pierce the sun

With iron shield she defends the faithful

Let chaos be undone

_Victoria 1:3_

And I’m no better than those I judge

With all my suffering

_London Grammar, Hell To The Liars_

9:41 Dragon

“Get up, you lazy bastard, Commander wants to see you.”

Studded boots kicked Rabbit out of blissful, dreamless sleep, and his cot.

“Maker’s balls, Feynar,” he cursed, climbing out of the clanging pile of armour and billycans he’d rolled into. “Can’t you just behave like a normal human being for once, for fuck’s sake?”

“I can’t,” Feynar grinned as he sat down on the cot and started to untie his boots, “I’m an elf.”

“No way,” Rabbit shook his head, pointing at his comrade’s feet. “You’re wearing boots.”

Feynar rolled his eyes. “It’s the ears, genius. Now piss off and let me sleep, or I’ll find a way to make you empty the latrines for a week.”

“Most likely they’ll just send you to keep me company.”

“I said, piss off!”

Belting his sword, Rabbit ducked out of the tent, leaving his comrade to his well-deserved rest. Feynar had never had much luck in gambling, and when he ran out of money, he’d offered to take this month’s night watches—a price Rabbit all too willingly played him for and won.

Although it was still early in the morning, the fog blanketing the camp already bustled with life—the snow that’d fallen during the night was crunching beneath countless footsteps, shouts and laughter wafted over from where a group of soldiers had gathered with their gruel, and somewhere further away, accompanied by steel clashing on steel, an officer shouted at a recruit who evidently was “too daft to tell left from right”.

Rabbit chuckled. His instructor had despaired similarly, back when he’d joined the Fereldan army as a green boy, barely able to tell a sword from a dagger, but just like him that recruit would learn. Or die.

_They’re all green boys here_, he thought, walking through the endless rows of tents towards the village’s open gate, _the others are all out there, fighting. _

He’d joined the Inquisition in the Hinterlands, and after weeks of routing bandits and apostates, he’d assumed he’d just stay there until this war was over. _If it hadn’t been for Cillian, we’d still be there. Being useful of some sort. _Instead, they’d been transferred to Haven to twiddle their thumbs and give frightened young recruits a thrashing with blunted weapons.

And now the Commander had summoned him.

Down in the Hinterlands, they hadn’t cared much for the higher ups—oh yes, they were famous, one and all. Who hadn’t heard of Lady Nightingale or the Lady Seeker or Commander Rutherford? But crawling through endless underbrush in pursuit of a band of apostates they had more immediate concerns than distant fame and stories. Even the Breach had seemed far away, its little splinters less threatening than sudden arrows flying past them during a meal: the rifts were easy enough to avoid and didn’t lie in ambushes.

It was undeniably close now, though, and so were their leaders. The village itself didn’t look much like a military camp, even their half-constructed defences couldn’t change that, and the stuck-up nobles strutting around like they owned the place further deterred from the image. Rabbit knew the Inquisition was more than just an army, and they had to accommodate visitors, but he’d spent most of his life around common soldiers, and he preferred it stayed that way. They were at war, after all. At war with apostates and bandits and the sky itself, so why weren’t they just focusing on winning it?

_You can barely tell something’s wrong. _

And yet … Beyond those mountains, his comrades were dying in the hundreds while he uselessly drowned in the empty safe prayers that filled Haven’s Chantry.

_This is your fault, Cillian._

The guard at the door to the Chantry’s back room gave him a nod. “You the one they call Rabbit?”

“Yes.”

“Good. They’re waiting inside.”

_They?_

There was no time to ask. The guard went ahead to announce him, and then he found himself in a dimly lit room, facing a massive table laden with scrolls, books, maps and markers, and the Commander’s frown towering over it as the door closed behind him with a thud.

_Why ‘they’,_ Rabbit wondered, his lips parting for the reflexive report, _he’s alone_, but before he could utter a word, the shadows began to speak.

“Lieutenant Amiot.”

Or at least it seemed to be the shadows, until a woman parted with them to step into the candlelight. Although he’d never seen her before, he recognised her immediately—her enigmatic smile and the piercing glance from beneath her hood shaped the whispers to be undeniably true, and he quickly averted his eyes.

“Lady Leliana,” he muttered, thoughts racing, _what is she doing here, what does she want from me, _trying to remain calm and cautiously looking up again, avoiding her gaze. “Commander.”

_They must’ve found out. _

“I understand you used to serve in the Fereldan army since shortly before the Blight, and tried your luck as a mercenary after you left two years ago?” Cullen inquired after a brief moment of silence, shuffling papers on the table.

“Yes, Ser.”

“And after joining the Inquisition, you were assigned to Captain Tasgall in the Hinterlands?”  
“That is correct, Ser.”

The Commander’s frown deepened as he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Still smiling, Leliana produced a scroll from beneath a weighty tome and handed it to him.

“Ah yes,” he mumbled, skimming through its contents. “Thank you.”

“We’ve read your report. We’re truly sorry about what happened to him,” Leliana took over. “He was a good man.”

“The best,” Rabbit agreed fervently, but the spymaster’s curious look made him fall silent. _Cillian, _he thought, _what do they know?_

Cullen sighed and put the paper down again. “Since you’ve served in the Hinterlands, you know how precarious our situation is until we’ve established a foothold in a region. We’re getting more and more reports from rifts and bandit attacks on the Storm Coast we can’t ignore any longer. It’s time to send troops. You’ve got a sharp eye for threats, Lieutenant. We’ll need that at the Storm Coast. I’m assigning you to the Herald’s personal guard.”

_Her_.

More stories, more distant fame. The others had restored order to a city gone mad, fought the Archdemon side by side with the Hero of Ferelden or single-handedly fended off a dragon, yet the tales the soldiers told by the fireplace at night quickly turned away from their deeds, and to her: the woman who’d walked the Fade, and lived.

_The Herald._

_Redcliffe, the mage who wouldn’t stop following them around. No, not them. Cillian. ‘You should be with us, friend,’ he’d continue over and over until Rabbit told him off, but Cillian would just shake his head. ‘You should join the Inquisition, instead,’ he’d answer, earnestly. ‘We’ll put this right. The Herald will.’ The mage, however, didn’t seem so sure, ‘At least she’s one of us, I guess,’ and there was Tasgall’s wolfish grin lingering in their silences when Cillian wasn’t looking. _

Rabbit suddenly realised he’d left them waiting for an answer. “Yes, Ser,” he said. “Where should I report to?”

“You’ll be leaving for the coast today. The others will be at the stables.”

“Keep an eye on her,” Leliana smiled, thumbing a wooden raven map marker before she carefully placed it on the strip of land next to the Waking Sea, half concealing the letters making up the words _Storm Coast_.

“That will be all, Lieutenant.”

“My Lady. Ser.”

The camp had fully awoken by the time he returned to their tent. Cautiously, Rabbit slipped beneath the flap and ducked. As expected, Feynar jerked upright on his cot and, still half asleep, flung a knife into his direction. One of the tent poles caught it with an annoyed _plonk_.

“Andraste’s great flaming ass, didn’t I tell you to piss off? Couldn’t you find some dunderheaded recruit to give you a blow—” Feynar interrupted his ranting and frowned as he watched his comrade quietly tying up his bedroll. “They’re sending you away?”

Rabbit nodded, checking the contents of his saddlebags. He’d never really settled down in Haven, and why would he? They were soldiers, they were at war, and any accommodation they’d been given could only be temporary.

“The Commander personally?” The elf sounded excited, if a bit jealous.

“Yeah,” he said, thinking of Lady Nightingale’s impervious smile. “They assigned me with the Herald. To watch … over her.”

Feynar picked up on his hesitation, raising his eyebrows, “To watch over her, or watch her?”

_Keep an eye on her._ It was more than just protection, wasn’t it?

“Whatever it is, don’t simply kill her like Cillian.” Feynar shrugged when he failed to answer. “She’s got that glowing thingy, after all.”

“Why would I do that?”

His comrade shifted uneasily on the cot, then got up and pulled the dagger from the pole, as if he’d rather continue this conversation with the comfort of a weapon in hand.

“It’s what you do, though, isn’t it? Killing threats?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Rabbit scoffed and threw saddlebags and bedroll over his shoulder, turning to leave. “You think she’s a threat?”

“Well, someone does.”

“Not me.”

With that, he exited the tent, smiling as Feynar’s voice raised above the din of the camp, “Don’t get yourself killed by a mage, you bastard!”

When he arrived at the stables, they’d already gathered around their horses, making last preparations before setting out into Ferelden’s unpredictable wilderness, again. They were all experienced men and women, Rabbit realised, looking into their hardened, lined faces, wary but not unfriendly, listening to their endless teasing, seeing the purpose in their steps as they saddled their horses, menial tasks to keep the nervousness at bay.

Between them, the woman they were calling the Herald seemed strangely out of place. She wasn’t wearing the Inquisition’s colours, instead being clad in black with the copper of her hair as the only contrast. If not for the sword-and-eye clasp fastening her travelling cloak, he would’ve assumed her to be a visitor returning to their home after they’d sated their curiosity about this new organisation promising to restore the world to sanity.

Indeed, he would’ve preferred her to be just another noble. Of course, there were the stories: _the Herald commands the rifts, the Herald’s stared down a pride demon, the Herald’s saved so many people, she’s a hero. _Yet he still had to meet one of those fabled saved ones, and he’d seen too many die in the Hinterlands—to rifts, to bandits, to sheer bad luck, in the name of someone they’d never met. They made her out to be a great warrior, strong and quick and powerful, but the woman adjusting a sword on her saddle seemed anything but that.

_Too young_, he thought as he approached her, _too small. _

“Lady Trevelyan?”

_Too frail. _

She checked the saddle’s position again, then turned around slowly and regarded him with a cool look.

“What is it?”

“Lieutenant Daron Amiot, reporting for duty,” he said stiffly, returning her gaze. It was surprisingly stern, he noticed: her eyes were not at all those of the spoiled, naive noblewoman she resembled, but hid a spark he knew all too well. Despite appearances, she was no stranger to cruelty, or death, and something told him she found a certain joy in violence.

_A mage, after all. A threat._

“So, you’re the soldier who’s supposed to replace Deidra, then? You’re late.”

“Yes, My Lady. I’m sorry, My Lady.”

She frowned. “Amiot, you say. Are you a nobleman?”

The other soldiers had stopped their preparations and watched them curiously. He couldn’t fault them. He’d suffered enough incompetent officers who were granted their rank by title alone to share their reservations.

“Not anymore, My Lady. By name alone, I’m afraid.”

Lady Trevelyan smiled slightly. “Now, that is a thing we have in common, then.”

Protest promptly stirred inside him. They were nothing alike, how could they, with her nobility apparent in her fancy clothing, her arrogant demeanour, the power that’d landed in her hands by chance mere weeks ago? In comparison, he was but a lowly soldier, unremarkable and replaceable to the likes of her, just another uniformed pawn to move around on a map. And above all, _he wasn’t a mage._

Rabbit knew better than to share his thoughts. Instead, he nodded politely.

“You’ve quite literally kept the name, though, haven’t you?”

“My Lady?”

“The Amiots used to have the rabbit as their heraldic animal, if I’m not—_oh, stop it, Garnet_,” she said, gently pushing away her horse’s head to save her cloak from being nibbled on. “And I hear you’re generally known as Rabbit, right?”

One of the soldiers snorted, but immediately stifled his laughter when Lady Trevelyan cast him a scathing look.

“It’s just—it’s just a nickname,” he replied uneasily. “We’ve not been considered nobility since the Blessed Age. Over time, I’ve become rather used to it.”

“Alright then, _Rabbit_. The Inquisition has provided you with a horse—I presume you can ride?”

It took all his willpower to confine his groan to the inside. In his opinion, his own two feet were everything he needed to travel. He much preferred forced marches in difficult terrain over throwing himself at the mercy of a thousand pounds of maliciousness created by the Old Gods themselves. Especially if those pounds seemed to plot his murder simply out of boredom, as Lady Trevelyan’s mare was undoubtedly doing now. Garnet snorted.

“I—um, well enough,” Rabbit stuttered, and Lady Trevelyan seemed satisfied with his answer. It wasn’t a lie, but also not the entire truth. He’d had the dubious pleasure of climbing on a horse’s back before, but each time it’d ended with a mouthful of dirt and a trudge through the underbrush to find his mount enjoying a forest meadow before their neighbours had realised their draft horse had gone missing. When he’d joined the army, he’d always stuck to the infantry, and it had worked out—until recently.

“Emmett—” she motioned the soldier who’d laughed before and still sported suspiciously red cheeks to come over—“will show it to you. I expect you to be ready to move out in fifteen minutes. That goes for you lot, as well, or we’ll be here all day.” She’d raised her voice for the last part, and the soldiers hurried back to their mounts to finish preparations.

“Name’s Emmett,” Emmett introduced himself, leading the way into the stables.

“Obviously,” Rabbit commented dryly.

“Is it?” The soldier turned around overacting a thoughtful face. “You know, I could just be hiding my fancy blue-blooded family name. I could even be the heir of some rich merchant prince in Antiva, for all you know.”

Rabbit rolled his eyes. “Please, you’ve got a Fereldan accent as broad as Drakon River. Plus, do the Antivans even have redheads?”

“They’re merchants,” Emmett sulked, “they’re from all over.” He stopped in front of a box and gave the door a little kick. “There we are, your mount.”

It was a chestnut stallion, proud and majestic, and the entirety of his more than thousand pounds were definitely not pleased to see them. When Rabbit took a step closer, the horse flattened his ears to the back, stomped angrily with his front hooves and flashed the white of his eyes.

He’d rather ride an archdemon.

Seeing his terrified expression, Emmett laughed and patted him on the back. “Ah, I’m just messing with you. This one’s the Commander’s. Vicious bastard. The horse, I mean, not the Commander. Lady Imira insists he’s actually very well behaved and very sweet. Even got a pet name for him, calls him _Cookie_.” He shook his head, and, at the sight of Rabbit’s raised eyebrows, quickly added, “Again, the horse, not the—” 

“I figured,” Rabbit said, only marginally amused.

“Yeah, well.” Clearing his throat, Emmett swiftly passed through the stable and exited through the back, where they’d hitched the less valuable horses beneath what looked like a quickly assembled roof. This time the horse he stopped in front of was a bay, half asleep and unimpressed by their presence. “His name’s Mud. Lady Imira thought it fitting.”

The gelding _did_ look rather dirty, Rabbit noted. “Because of his colour?”

“Nah. Because he’s a proper stick in the mud. You’ll get along splendidly, I wager.”

Emmett’s prediction proved to be nearly accurate. Against his expectations, Rabbit made his way out of the Frostbacks without any involuntary ground visits, mainly because Mud didn’t seem to care about the weight on his back. In fact, the animal didn’t seem to care about anything but his own little world—the wolves howling at night seemed to upset it just as much as Rabbit’s directions, and he frequently found himself stuck in front of bridges and puddles, burying his heels in Mud’s flanks in a futile attempt to spurn him on. It never worked. Whatever perils Mud sensed in those crossings and wet spots, however, they always vanished as soon as Lady Trevelyan turned her horse around to lead him through the obstacles.

“Oh, he’s a special one,” she chuckled when Rabbit asked her about his problem. “He’s a donkey stuck in the body of a horse.”

Once they left the mountain passes, their progress was slowed down by a company joining them. They were mostly infantry relocating from the Hinterlands, and Rabbit gladly took the opportunity to change the stirrups for Ferelden’s dusty roads beneath his soles. Mud, of course, didn’t care, although Rabbit could’ve sworn his long face seemed a bit happier now that he was led through the lowlands. Until they had to cross another bridge, that was—after he spent an hour fruitlessly reasoning with his mount, Lady Trevelyan simply hitched the bay to Garnet, and returned to the head of the column.

“That’s some kind of spell, right,” he grumbled, embarrassed, and Emmett responded with a perplexed shrug. “Blighted mages.”


	2. The Coast

Lake Calenhad sat to their right, sending wafts of mist in the mornings and mosquitoes in the evenings. The number of soldiers they travelled with dwindled with each camp they set up along the Imperial Highway, like a trail of tents and lights they left to better find their way back to Haven.

“Look at that,” Emmett said one night, pointing at the line of fires with the boot he’d just pulled off his feet to empty the water that’d gathered in there, “bit like a conquest, isn’t it?”

Rabbit answered with an annoyed grunt and shoved another wet branch into the fire. It’d rained for three days straight now, and it’d become impossible to find somewhere dry. Building the Highway, Tevinter had stripped the land surrounding it of woods, the Fereldans had done their part, and anything that’d grown back since then wasn’t enough to provide the shelter they needed.

“If by conquest you mean fucking wet, tired and hungry, then yes, that’s it.”

At least they had a fire, courtesy of Lady Trevelyan, who’d just smiled at his earlier attempts to burn what was more water than wood at this point, then told him to step back and ignited it with a snap of her fingers. _Show-off_, he’d thought, _blighted mages_, but part of him was relieved they’d find at least some warmth this night.

“We’re taking back Ferelden,” Emmett continued dreamily, pouring water out of his other boot. “Isn’t that actually a job for the Fereldan army?”

“They’re spread quite thinly, I’m told,” Lady Trevelyan joined the conversation, sitting down on the free stump next to Rabbit. “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t sleep very well.”

He _did_ mind, there went the quiet uneventful watch he’d hoped for, with him and Emmett taking turns in complaining about their miserable lives until the fog signalled them it was time to wake the others, but he wouldn’t be the idiot telling the Herald off. Instead, he offered her some dried meat, shrugging and taking a strip for himself when she politely declined.

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly the army’s fault, if you ask me,” he resumed their conversation, chewing.

“Oh? How’s that?” Emmett put his boots back on and rummaged through his pockets to produce a slightly damaged apple he began cutting with his knife.

“Uncertain times, right? They’re protecting the important places, and people, and don’t have anyone left for the Maker-forsaken blighted ass-end of nowhere—” Rabbit suddenly realised he was in the company of a superior, and a noblewoman at that. “I’m—I’m sorry, My Lady.”

To his surprise, she just chuckled. “No need to mince words. I’m sure this country is quite literally blighted in places, still. But you’re right. We asked the king for troops, but as it turns out, a discarded quartermaster and a gratuitous stay in Haven is as much support as he’ll give.”

“She,” he couldn’t help to correct her.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been a soldier for all my life, and most of that time I served with the Fereldan army. Some things—some things just make the rounds among the troops.”

“But isn’t that—” Emmett tried to catch a slice of apple with his mouth and failed. The fruit vanished into the dark behind him. “Ah, shit. Anyway, that’s just talk, though, isn’t it? You know, like the stuff that makes the rounds here, like Lady Nightingale secretly breeding nugs or the Commander trying to get into the Herald’s pants—” He fell silent, looking embarrassed. “No offense, My Lady.”

“None taken,” she said, visibly amused, “although Commander Cullen might. I would ask where you got that impression in the first place, but I have a feeling you’d choke on that apple if I did, so I won’t. Now, Rabbit, about Ferelden, it’s not all talk, isn’t it?”

“Not really, no,” he shook his head. “Following the Blight, they decided to disband most of the army, well, _she_ did, King Alistair probably just smiled pleasantly and nodded, as he always does, and well, one day it was my time to go, too.”

_Thank you for your service, Captain Amiot_, _they’d said, here’s your pay, off you go, return to your family. His family … His little nephew’s smile when he spotted him coming down the hill. The gleam in his sister’s eyes, will you stay with us, help with the baby twins, please stay, Daron, the tears on his mother’s face when he left again, too restless to stay, the promise of gold on his lips._

“Don’t know about that,” Emmett commented, taking a bite from what was left of the apple. “Sounds a bit stupid.”

Rabbit tried to find the right words. “The Queen … isn’t fond of war.”

“Thank the Maker,” Lady Trevelyan sighed in relief. “There’s at least one sensible ruler left in this world.”

“Still, seems stupid,” Emmett disagreed, little chunks of apple spewing into the flames, “with the mages going crazy and so on.” His earlier embarrassment made another appearance on his face. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she reiterated. “It’s the truth, after all.”

_The truth. The letter, about a year into his mercenary being. His comrade, reading it out loud for him, the fear in those words that weren’t his. The mages, they’re coming, there are no templars here to protect us. We need you, Daron. Please, come back. Please, save us. And he’d come home to … home to … _

He wasn’t so sure anymore the wetness on his face was the rain alone. From the side, Lady Trevelyan seemed to watch him intently, an inscrutable expression on her face.

“I could take your watch, Lieutenant, if you’d like a moment off,” she said softly.

Rabbit stared at her blankly. She couldn’t mean it, he decided, it was a trick, of course it was, a test of discipline. If he left now, she’d let him suffer the consequences.

“I don’t mind. I won’t be able to sleep again anyway.”

“My Lady,” he muttered, full of doubt.

Her smile was surprisingly warm, caring in a way he’d not expected to see from her no matter what the other soldiers had said. They clearly adored her, _enraptured by her pretty face, in awe of the Mark on her hand, blinded by her reputation_, and he considered them fools for it, and who listened to the ramblings of a fool?

And yet …

“Go, Lieutenant,” she insisted, and, when he still hesitated, “That was an order.”

Lake Calenhad narrowed into the stream they’d follow to the Storm Coast. The Imperial Highway became a distant string of lights in the night, until it disappeared completely in the shadow of basalt columns and the mist that’d taken a liking to them. It grew even denser the closer they came to the sea. He could already taste the salt—

“Hold.” Lady Trevelyan pulled up her horse and frowned. Garnet snorted, rolled her eyes and refused to stand still as if there was a predator nearby. And there was, in a sense. “Do you smell that?”

“Smoke,” Emmett said before Rabbit could utter a word, and now he noticed it too, the bitterness chafing his nose and throat, stinging in his eyes when they spurred on their horses to find its source.

The fires had almost burned down by the time they reached the village. Rain clung to the smoke and ashes, transforming what had been huts and homes and livelihoods into barely more than black sludge sticking to their boots. And the familiarity of it all …

S_ilence greeting him coming down the hill, scorched earth and charred corpses, and the words of the letter burning like the tears in his eyes, please, Daron, come back, save us. Please. _

“Apostates.” A whispered warning, silhouettes half obscured by the smoke, the sound of weapons drawn. Then flashes of light, curses and shouts that soon turned into screams.

Heat flew by and missed him by an inch, hitting the burnt-out shell of a hut behind him instead, where it smouldered and died. More shouts, more screams, his sword tearing into cloth and flesh, blue eyes staring at him in surprise and fear, and finally, as he pulled back the blade, a wordless plea, the same his sister must’ve made when they’d entered the hut, _mercy, please,_ last words to a stranger. Last words that were never heard. He pushed the mage to the ground, disgusted, and then there was suddenly Emmett’s voice, “Rabbit! The Herald!”

A storm danced around her, with her, following death’s complicated choreography, but her movement seemed sluggish, as if she’d missed a step and was now struggling to keep stroke. He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, he realised, seeing one of the apostates closing in, fire burning at the tip of his staff, ready to prance at any opening she’d provide. Her lightning strikes bounced off his barrier, leaving nothing more than blue ripples on his skin as he took another step, and there was Emmett again, yelling, lunging at the mage, felling him, crying out in pain when the fire hit him, rolling off the mage’s body. Before the apostate had time for another spell, Lady Trevelyan’s blade bit into his heart, and for a moment everything settled in an exasperated stillness, filled only with the gushing of the rain and her gaze fixed on Rabbit’s unmoving figure.

“Rabbit,” she said as she passed him, still clutching the sword in her hands. “Look at me.” Her voice was collected, calm even, and when he finally dared to look up there was no anger in her eyes.

“Cullen sent you to protect me,” she continued softly. There was blood on her face, dripping down her nose from where she’d caught a hit on its bridge. _A hit I could’ve prevented. _Rabbit remained silent.

“I know I’m a mage. It’s alright if you don’t trust me, I can understand that. But we’re on our own out here, Lieutenant. And even if you won’t have my back, at least have theirs. Allow them to return home, they deserve as much.”

He had no words to make this right, or even attempt to, especially not after … Why hadn’t he just stayed, pretending everything was alright? Why hadn’t he concealed his feelings better, why hadn’t she just ignored it? And why, for the Maker’s love, did she have to make her kindness an order?

His face must’ve betrayed his thinking.

“I don’t want your undying loyalty. I don’t need it. The Inquisition, however, is a different matter. It needs all the loyalty it can get.” Her gaze seemed steel now, red-glowing steel in the hands of a smith, ready to be forged into a weapon.

One she’d wield against him if he wasn’t careful, but a more careless part of his thinking had already thrown away his defences and taken control over his tongue: “What about your loyalty?”

The beating of his heart was the smith’s hammering on the steel as he shaped the blade that would be his demise, and he expected her answer to be a spark that’d gone astray and set the forge afire. Instead, there was just the hissing of the metal submerged in water.

She laughed. “What did I do to deserve that?”

Somehow, her amusement had just made it worse. _Tasgall would’ve taken that sword and beaten the crap out of me. _Rabbit would’ve preferred that.

“I—I don’t know,” he stuttered, staring at his ash-covered boots, _maybe she’ll burn me when I’m not looking_, earning a dismissive click with her tongue.

“Oh, you can do better than that.”

He would’ve also preferred a knife through the heart.

“It’s just—I—you—mages.” The words stumbled as soon as they hit his tongue, got caught against his lips and finally settled in a miserable silence.

“Mages,” she repeated, slowly, visibly less amused. “Maker’s breath, Lieutenant, you just saw me _kill_ mages.”

“They attacked us.”

“Yes, because they saw us, _the Inquisition_, as enemies! As far as they’re concerned, we could all be mages, and they’d still try to kill us. We’re good at animosity.” She took a deep breath and continued in a softer voice. “If we weren’t, I’d still be in Ostwick, and the only one I’d killed would be the apprentice I accidentally bored to death with lectures about herbs.”

“Lady Trevelyan!” a soldier shouted from one of the huts that hadn’t been reduced to ash completely and dispelled the sadness that’d suddenly darkened her eyes. “There’s another one!”

“I didn’t know,” Rabbit said, embarrassed, _why can’t you just shut up for once_, “I’m sorry, Lady Tre—”

“Imira,” she interrupted him, already turning around to see why she was required. “My name is Imira.”

With that, she left him in the middle of the burnt village, surrounded by corpses, smoke and the ghosts that hid within. No one seemed to pay attention to him, being too occupied with questioning the young man they’d dragged out of the ashes.

Snatches of his shrill panicked voice cut through the rain. “—lived—hid—join—please—”

“Served in the Fereldan army, my arse.” Emmett had gotten back up onto his feet and approached him, scorn and pain flavouring his voice. The mage’s attack had singed his right side, leaving him with multiple burns on his arm and hand where the uniform hadn’t withstood the heat, and given him the dishevelled look of someone who’d lost his razor midway through shaving. “Experienced soldier, my arse. First real fight, and you just stand there and stare like a dimwit. A five-year-old with a fucking stick would’ve done a better job. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Herald would’ve been better protected by some of the stiffs here.” He spat.

“I fought just like everyone else,” Rabbit protested, but Emmett waved him aside.

“Yeah, I got that. _She _got that. Or rather not, because you’re a half-arsed dud who thinks he’s better than everyone else, but in truth you’re nothing more than some common prick.”

“I told you I was.”

This time it wasn’t just spit hitting Rabbit, but the palm of Emmett’s unburnt hand. Forcefully.

“Very funny,” his comrade said through gritted teeth, shaking out his wrist. “Very funny, indeed. Do you have _any_ idea what happens if she dies?”

Emmett’s words were filled with a coldness that could’ve turned the rain to solid ice, and Rabbit felt like he’d slipped. No, he’d already slipped earlier, neglecting his duty, and ever since he’d been falling and falling, with the ground nowhere in sight, but knowing it was waiting for him, and the longer his fall the harder the impact would be.

“We’d be fucked.” 

Rabbit had no answer, and, luckily, didn’t need one—Imira had given the command to return to their horses, and move out.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly when Emmett hoisted himself onto his grey, grunting and cursing because his wounded arm didn’t seem to bear much weight. “I’m really sorry.”

“Then do better next time,” Emmett grumbled, settled more comfortably into his saddle and slung the reigns over his sound hand. “Fucking mages.”

“Fucking mages, indeed,” he agreed under his breath and climbed on his horse. Passing him when they set out, Imira cut him a look, almost as if she’d heard him. _Her, especially. _

Lake Calenhad was barely more than a memory fading with every mile they travelled, and the basalt columns that’d framed their path for days fell away and shrunk until they became one with the churning water. From the company that’d joined them, less than a fourth still accompanied them to set up what would be their base of operations on a wind-swept hill overlooking the Waking Sea.

Imira insisted they rested for a couple of days, much to Emmett’s delight, while she compiled letters and reports from the scouts fluttering in and out of the camp like the ravens they adored so much. He disliked the birds—their constant cawing and flapping in the cages they’d stored next to his tent made it nearly impossible to sleep, and their black eyes following him every time he passed them reminded him of Lady Nightingale’s unfathomable stare.

Two days after they’d arrived, a patrol got attacked by a high dragon on the beaches. There’d been no prior warning, and scouts later reported her returning to an island just off the coast, where’d she must’ve had her lair. So, when the beast’s roars pierced the soggy afternoon, they scrambled to get their weapons and prayed the camp would go unnoticed. To his surprise, Imira didn’t seem to share their fears, instead assembling volunteers.

“I’d rather not fight her out in the open like that, and without preparation,” she told them when they quickly saddled the horses. “But there might be survivors, and they deserve a chance to flee.”

They were too late. Discouraged by the Inquisition’s arrows, the dragon veered away, disappearing into the fog resting on the waves, leaving only the dead and dying.

Their screams followed him through the night. He played one of his comrades, Otis, for his night watches and lost on purpose, so he didn’t have to welcome their faces twisted in pain and terror in his dreams, only to watch them turn to ashes.

More often than not he was joined by Imira, who sat down wordlessly on the stump across the fire. Together they stared silently into the flames until the darkness gave way to the misty greyness that shaped the days, and during the blue hours Rabbit found, despite his reservations, they were the same after all.

Although their solidarity became part of an unspoken routine even after they set out to man an outpost further inland, it faded with the nightmares in the morning, and in daylight, her demeanour was as irritating to him as ever.

“Lieutenant, a moment, if you will,” she said when he passed her, carrying water to refill their supplies. Judging from the bucket already sitting in the dirt next to her, Emmett shared his fate. Sighing internally, he put the his down as well and stepped up to them.

“According to the scouts, there’s all sorts of _travellers_ in this area, and I’d like to make sure we can proceed without incidents. That rift we’re about to seal will be enough trouble in itself, and I’d rather we don’t burn ourselves out on the way there. You know how it goes from the Hinterlands, Emmett—stay out of sight, and only engage when absolutely necessary. Rabbit will join you.”

Emmett frowned, regarding him with a disgruntled look before he turned to Imira.

“May I speak freely, My Lady?”

She gave a short nod.

“Have I done something to offend you, My Lady, that you’re sending me out with _him_ of all people?”

Imira raised an eyebrow. “Not yet, but you soon will if you keep that up.”

“He’ll get me killed!”

“The same could be said of me, yet you still follow my orders. _Without questioning._” The last part was a warning, and Emmett picked up on it.

“Yes, My Lady,” he resigned, avoiding her gaze.

“You’ll be fine,” she said with a slight smile, and, in Rabbit’s direction, “After all, you’re not a mage.”

Spite rode between them, unsaid and assumed reproaches echoing in every hoofbeat, every snort, every alarmed bird cry. Even the birches seemed to whisper amongst them, leaves trembling under the weight of the stories they shared with the cliffside they cowered beneath. And the stories they could tell—two men, put together by circumstance, one failing his duties and the other one a living reminder of their fulfilment. Although a healer had taken care of his wounds, Emmett had refused to match his hair lengths, so his face was still split in two parts.

“You’ve been with her for a while now, haven’t you, Emmett?” Rabbit finally couldn’t bear the silence any longer. His comrade took his time answering, and Rabbit was almost sure he would disregard him.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve—I’ve just been wondering. Has anyone ever—disobeyed her?”

Emmett turned in his saddle and examined him intently. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, but if you’re thinking of running away, you won’t get far. We’re everywhere. If it’s not us, it’ll be some other soldiers or Lady Nightingale’s spies who’ll get you. And believe me, you’ll be praying it’s Lady Imira who’ll find you first.”

“You’re awfully loyal to her.”

“Why wouldn’t I,” Emmett scoffed and pushed some low-hanging twigs out of the way, only to let go of them as soon as Rabbit was within range. Cold water sprayed over him when they hit his face. “Oh, sorry.” His tone said differently, but Rabbit decided to ignore it.

“So, what’s your story, then?” he asked instead. “Did she bail you out or something?”

“Something of the sort,” began Emmett reluctantly, slowing his horse to fit Mud’s lazy pace. “I’m from Amaranthine, originally. My father used to poach on Arl Howe’s lands, and when he got caught, that old bastard thought it best to not only hang my old man, but also draft his son into his forces, so I wouldn’t be a waste of air like him. Had us moving on the Couslands, the fucker.” He spat. “So, when he got what he deserved, I legged it. Lived off odd jobs, poaching, stealing, you know the whole lot. Came to Haven because some clerics liked the idea of me accompanying them, and then the whole fucking thing blew up in our faces, and frankly, the Inquisition was as good as anything.”

“Yes, but how did you end up serving the Herald of all people?”

“Got drunk with some comrades one night,” Emmett continued, chuckling. “Overdid it, really. Bragged about how I wasn’t afraid of the rifts and all that crap.”

They reached the grove’s heart and for a second, Mud tarried, as if he considered putting soft light on the list of things he had to think about, but to Rabbit’s relief he ultimately moved on. “And were you?”

“Never been near those things before. As I said, I was _hammered_. And I don’t know whose idea it was in the end, but we ended up walking up to the Temple, and well—suffice to say, I apparently made it around the guards, and all I remember is standing there between all those weird molten rocks and that fucking glowing red stuff, staring up at the sky and telling those demon wankers to fuck off.”

Rabbit was at a loss of words. “You—_insulted_ the Breach?”

“Wild, eh?” There was ill-concealed pride in Emmett’s voice. “Commander wasn’t amused, though. Probably would’ve landed in a cosy cell, or not-so-cosy suicide mission, if not for Lady Imira. When they brought me in, she was there as well, and well—after she was done laughing, she asked me to join her guard, and here I am.” His enthusiasm vanished as quickly as it’d appeared, and he returned to his earlier sulking. “Also means I’m stuck with the likes of you, though.”

Digging his heels into his grey’s flanks, Emmett sped up again, only to make a sudden stop that resulted in Mud bumping into him.

“You hear that?” he whispered. Hushed voices originated from the treeline to their left, and when they crawled through the sparse underbrush to investigate, leaving the horses behind, something else mingled with them—_children’s laughter?_

The birches opened into a clearing, framed by the mountains on one side, and the trees on the other. In its middle, someone had set up a crooked tent made of crudely sown-together hides, and in front of it, two scrawny men cowered over a pile of branches and twigs. Judging from the trail of smoke, their attempts to light them were in vain. One of them called out to the woman, who was chasing around a young girl, laughing and whooping, and both what Rabbit assumed to be mother and daughter stopped their next lap in front of the wood pile.

“Refugees,” Emmett murmured. “Unimportant. Let’s go.”

Just as Rabbit turned to follow him back to the horses, a sudden movement in the corner of his eyes caught his attention. The woman had let go of her daughter, who jumped about excitedly a few feet away from the damp fireplace, and seemed to examine the surrounding trees a more closely. Rabbit ducked deeper into the mud, holding his breath. It was a spark in the woman’s hands at first, a trick of the light, maybe, but then it grew inside her palms, flames nourished by nothing, _the _nothing, until she tossed them into the wet branches, where they hungrily bit into the wood.

Although they returned at a quicker pace than they’d stroke up on the way there, it still seemed an eternity had passed before their colours finally came into sight. Imira greeted them at the camp’s edge, eagerly awaiting news.

“Two men, a woman and her little daughter, maybe eight years old. Looked like refugees, if you ask me, My Lady,” Emmet reported, climbing from his horse. “They camped in the woods beneath those dwarven pillars we passed yesterday, we can easily avoid them.”

She frowned. “Weapons?”

“None.”

“Right. We’ll take the coast path, then, and leave them in peace.”

Rabbit couldn’t help but scoff, earning a dismissive look.

“You object?” she said pointedly, and he could read the rest of her thoughts in her expression, _Again? This is getting tiresome. _

Regardless, she had a right to know, and would then, hopefully, amend her decision. If he found the right words, maybe he could make her see …

“They didn’t have weapons because they didn’t need them,” he said. “They’ll still attack us if we don’t do it first.”

Her annoyance was now palpable in the air.

“And you know that how?”

“They’re mages. They’re dangerous, and they’ll know we’re here. I mean, we’re not exactly subtle about it, if I may say so, and it’s just a matter of time until they light our tents instead of campfires.”

Still, she didn’t seem to be worried, instead absentmindedly rearranging tufts of the grey’s mane.

“Emmett?”

The animal gave a snort and shook its head.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“You’re sure you didn’t see any weapons—no swords, no bows, no staves?” Imira asked, unconcerned, rubbing the horse’s cheeks.

“Yes, My Lady. They were unarmed.”

“Tell me then, Rabbit,” she turned to him, every word hanging in the air like an icicle just waiting to impale him, “why would four unarmed people, one of them a child, attack twenty highly-trained, armed and armoured soldiers? What, in the Maker’s name, makes them so threatening to us that it validates a slaughter?”

He’d half expected her to be unreasonable. After all, she was a mage herself, and from what he’d gathered they tended to protect their brethren. Besides, she had a point, he had to admit, albeit reluctantly. But her refusal to listen could put them all in danger, and didn’t the Commander assign him this mission to keep her—all of them—out of it?

_Watch over her. Watch her. _

And she’d killed mages before …

“Oh, I don’t care _how_ they’ll do it, I don’t even want to know. I just know they’re going to, because they’re blighted apostates, and every apostate is an abomination that needs to be dealt with!” Rabbit nearly shouted the last part, only to fall silent at the sight of the sudden fire in her eyes: he’d gone too far, the icicles had fallen, and they’d hit him all.

“The Circles are gone, Lieutenant,” Imira said, her voice dangerously low. “Every mage is an apostate now. So are your mage comrades.” She paused, her gaze burning itself into his conscience. He couldn’t return it. “So am I.”

“My Lady, I—”

“I’m curious,” she interrupted him. “In your mind, am I an abomination that needs to be dealt with, as you’ve put it?”

There was no right answer. Or maybe there was, but he knew she wouldn’t simply accept it even if it was the truth, couldn’t, and she didn’t: “No, My Lady,” he whispered hoarsely, and she scoffed.

“What a relief you won’t stab me in the back, too, then.”

His heart skipped a beat, only to hammer away until the only thing he could hear was the frantic beating of the blood in his ears.

“My—My Lady?” he stammered.

_Maker’s breath, she knows. She must know. She can’t. _

A triumphant smile touched her face, disappearing so fast he almost thought he’d just imagined it.

_Cillian …_

“We’re all just people,” Imira said, after a while. “We don’t choose to become mages. We choose the kind we want to be. As does everyone.”

The smile had taken her anger with it, but the calmness in her expression was even worse than the rage mere moments before.

“Yes, My Lady,” he told his muddy boots, defeated. “I’m sorry, My Lady.”

“You know the Commander will eventually hear of this. Until then, you will mind your place, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

Rabbit tugged at his horse’s reins, his eyes still fixed on the ground, stifling a sigh of relief. She’d not killed him on the spot, despite her words by no means being coincidence.

Despite everything.

_Not yet, at least. _

As he quickly walked away, he could hear her addressing Emmett as if nothing had happened, “Make sure everyone’s rested and ready. We’ll travel the coast tomorrow.” 


	3. The Ravens

Their journey became more miserable with each day, and so did their mood. The hoods they’d drawn into their faces were soon turned into soaked cloth sticking to their skin by the spray the constant wind picked up from the sea. The horses struggled to keep their footing on the slippery pebbles of the beaches, throwing off their rider’s balance. At night, they sought shelter in the numerous caves dotting the cliffs, but their promise of dryness was but an illusion—when it wasn’t water dripping through strategically placed holes in the ceiling, it rained spiders. Still, Rabbit preferred the spiders over the distant roars of the dragon piercing the rushing of the waves. When they finally reached the hill the scouts had marked for the outpost, they found an angry old tusket had made it its home, charging them as soon as they came into sight. It didn’t even make a good meal.

In the afternoon, before they’d had the chance to fully set up camp, the rain started again, coming down in heavy gushes. Despite the sky’s best efforts to drown them, Rabbit and Otis were sent out to secure the perimeter. Realising the most dangerous part of their surroundings was a horde of shivering nugs holed up in a small cave they’d sought refuge from the downpour in, they both agreed on waiting for the rain to let up.

The weather wasn’t about to do them that favour, and after hours silently hunkered around their meagre fireplace, staring into the flames, the nugs’ incessant squeaking lulled him to sleep.

_‘I think he’s going to kill me, Rabbit.’ His voice, unusually high-pitched, the white of his eyes glinting in the light of their campfire. He wants to reassure him, pat his back and laugh about it, but ever since they left Redcliffe there had been an inexplicable hunger lingering in Tasgall’s look, and in training they’d all seen his smile turning ugly as his blows broke mercilessly through their comrade’s guard. Yet, it couldn’t be. They were all Inquisition soldiers, after all. They were brothers. _

_‘Nonsense, Cillian,’ he says, smiling uneasily. ‘You’re not the enemy. You’ve got nothing to fear from one of us.’_

The rain subsided with the night. Following his return from the nug cave, he’d spent it on yet another watch in the company of Emmett’s brooding, and was glad to be finally able to switch his gloomy looks for even gloomier dreams. At least the dreams didn’t make a display of their reproaches. Rabbit’s anticipation didn’t last long, however, as Imira’s voice caught him from across the camp before he could slip into his tent.

“Lieutenant, a moment, please.”

He sighed and went over to the stack of wooden crates beneath a tarpaulin they used as a map table, or, in her case, as a chair. She looked like she hadn’t slept, like so often. Instead she must’ve crawled through the underbrush for hours, mud and fallen leaves clinging to her boots and cloak, unruly hair barely contained in her braid anymore, the circles under her eyes just as black as the smear on her forehead, and the charcoal in her fingers.

“Yes, My Lady?”

Tucked away under her thighs so the wind wouldn’t pick them up, torn-out pages covered in fine lines concealed the map they’d pinned to the top crate. They were mostly drawings of plants, as far as he could tell, but there was also the upper half of a horse and what looked like a study of … Emmett frowning?

“There are some scouts surveying the movement in the area,” she said, shading the petals of what he recognised as embrium. “The reports they sent back are mostly complaints about bears, but apparently they set up a camp upriver.”

“Can’t be that unbearable, then.”

Her disapproval broke the tip off the charcoal, leaving an irregular line where it rolled over the paper before vanishing into the mud to their feet.

“They haven’t been heard of since,” she groaned and reached for her dagger to carve a new one.

“Oh.”

“The rift can wait,” Imira resumed, little chips of charcoal raining onto the rain-soaked earth. “I want you to gather half of our men and be ready to set out before noon.”

_Why me_, he wondered, after all he’d never proven himself as especially capable, not to her. _Why am I supposed to command them, all of a sudden?_

“Deidra was my right hand,” she explained, and it took him a moment to understand he’d said the last bit out loud. “You’re supposed to replace her.”

“I’m honoured, My Lady,” he replied politely and watched annoyance wandering over her expression as she forcefully shoved the dagger back into its sheath.

“It’s not an honour. It’s your job.”

Rabbit decided agreement would be the safest option. “Of course, My Lady.”

A sharp, up-turned V appeared between her eyebrows. From the tarpaulin, a drop of water that’d rested there had continued its journey and fallen onto the paper on her lap, turning delicate leaf veins into grey smudge. Imira sighed and put down the charcoal, now paying undivided attention to him.

“But indeed, why you?”

A change of demeanour he definitely didn’t favour.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why us? Tell me, Rabbit, why the Inquisition?”

“I’ve been a soldier my whole life. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

She sighed again. “That’s not the whole truth, is it?”

“The Inquisition pledged to restore order. A worthy goal I wanted to be part of.”

_That fleeting smile, again. There’s something she doesn’t tell me. _And why would she, he wondered, seeing as he hadn’t given her any reason to trust him?

The charcoal rolled over the edge of the crate and joined its little splinters coating the mud.

“You wanted to kill mages,” Imira said slowly, every word sending a jolt of fear through his heart. “Even more so after what happened with Tasgall.”

_She knows, she knows, she knew all along. _

“I—”

“You’re not the only one.” If she picked up on his alarm, her voice didn’t betray it. “The way this war has affected the country, most people would want some sort of revenge on them.”

_Did she?_ Suddenly he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Look around you. The others? They’re the same. Oh, they might have joined for adventure, or to feel like they’re needed, or something else entirely. Emmett says he joined for the food, but I’m sure he’s lying, considering it’s barely edible at best. But in the end, they’re all here because they were somehow caught in the middle and couldn’t stand on the sidelines any longer.”

Even after weeks spent in her company, he still didn’t know what to make of her. Didn’t know what she’d been told about him, what she’d gathered on her own. Maybe there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe her remarks had been a coincidence after all, _another_ coincidence, and the smile a figment of his anxious imagination. Maybe. _Hopefully_. Rabbit was greatly inclined to believe that.

“Anyway,” she went off on a tangent and stood. “We’ve wasted enough time. You’ve got your orders. Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

_Nothing to be afraid of,_ he told himself, fighting an alleviated smile. _Nothing._

His relief was only momentarily, however. Imira’s next words hit his back like well-aimed throwing knives as he walked away, biting into his lungs and staggering him.

“Cillian told a different story, and you knew it to be the truth.”

When he finally dared to turn around to face her, she was gone. Only the loose pages she’d left behind still capered in the wind.

“Can’t be far now,” Rabbit said when the stream’s gurgle intensified, telling tales of its fight against the rocks growing into the grey clouds. They’d spent the bigger part of the afternoon on horseback, creeping up the banks at a frustratingly slow pace to avoid the bears. “Upriver, they said. There’s barely any river left.”

Imira nodded and spurred on Garnet.

There were ravens cycling overhead. Their dissonant caws echoed between the cliffs and cut into the water’s bickering, and their squad’s silence.

_Waiting for death. _

At Imira’s command, they climbed down from their horses, left them with Otis, and proceeded on foot, stumbling and slipping on the pebbles slick from the rain. The stream turned into a trickle and disappeared between overgrown rocks, giving way to a clearing set back against the crags. Although the tents seemed to be empty, a playground for the ravens now, the campfire was still giving off smoke and the birds hadn’t dared to settle down yet: someone was still there, or at least had been not too long ago. They ducked behind some bushes and waited.

“Big camp for two scouts,” mumbled Emmett next to him and Rabbit closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. A raven swooped down from the sky, landing on what seemed to be a pile of clothes.

_Proclaiming death._

Someone stumbled out of a tent and tried to shoo the raven away. The bird seemed unperturbed, however, hopping over to another pile of clothes, cawing, and then burying its beak into the lumps, black against orange and grey, glistening with wetness. When it lifted its head again, its feathers were edged in red.

_Corpses. _

Wood clattered quietly as Emmett nocked an arrow, but before he could shoot, Imira placed a hand on his arm.

“Hold your fire,” she whispered.

“My Lady,” Emmett protested, “those are our men. They killed them!”

“Who, him?” She pointed at the man flailing at the raven, hitting the corpse instead. “I doubt it.”

For once, Rabbit found he agreed with her. The man at the camp seemed little more than a child, all spindly arms and legs, recoiling at the contact he’d accidentally made with the dead scout, nearly stumbling over the sword he’d strapped to his waist.

“He’s barely able to look at them,” Imira continued, shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t him. But maybe he can tell us about it.”

She motioned them to stay put, stood and left the bushes’ cover. Emmett’s bow creaked under the weight of the draw.

“Hold your fire,” Rabbit reminded him, almost mechanically, eyes fixed on the clearing, but his comrade just scoffed.

“She’ll get herself killed like that one day, she will,” Emmet said through clenched teeth. “I’m just keeping her safe.”

_Safety isn’t exactly her thing, _Rabbit couldn’t help but notice. She was alone in the middle of a potentially hostile camp, confronting a stranger, who, regardless of his clumsiness, was still armed and could therefore pose a threat, and she hadn’t even drawn her sword. Instead, she looked quite comfortable, like she was enjoying herself, even.

“They don’t bite, you know,” she said with a chuckle, and the man jerked around, frantically grabbing for his sword, yanking it out of its sheath.

An arrow whizzed past Rabbit’s ear as Emmett loosened the string, death flying on faster wings than the ravens waiting for their meal. It wouldn’t miss.

“Oh, for—” The curse got stuck in Rabbit’s throat.

Blue light rippled and exploded from the man’s chest, enveloping the arrow and reducing it to glowing splinters, smoking and spluttering when they hit the pebbles to their feet. For a moment, there was an incredulous silence, then Imira slowly turned to face them in their hiding spot, her hand still twisted in a complicated gesture.

The man dropped his sword and ran.

“I said, hold your fire, if I recall correctly,” she said coolly, ignoring the stranger’s flight. “I meant it.”

Emmett stood, clutching the bow so tightly Rabbit could see his knuckles whiten. _Has anyone ever disobeyed her_, he thought and followed him with the rest of their squad into the camp, remembering Emmett’s warning and the baffling brevity of her anger whenever he’d failed her.

_She doesn’t need her rage._

“Yes, he was about to attack me,” she pre-empted Emmett, who’d opened his mouth in protest. “But as you might’ve realised, I’m not defenceless.”

_They fear her calmness just as much._

It looked like Emmett did his best to break the bow in his hands, or his fingers, depending on what would first give in to the pressure.

“Yes, My Lady,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

_Fearing what it could turn into._

“No,” she agreed. “Instead you will check those tents, all of you. I don’t want any more surprise arrows.”

_And she knows. _

They went to work. Most of the tents were empty, shelter to nothing more than ghosts and mice terrified at the sudden intrusion. Those closer to the campfire were a different matter, however, filled with the familiar chaos of unmade bedrolls, half-dried clothes sprawled over makeshift furniture and flies wandering about the bowl of three-day old gruel sitting on top. And those boxes neatly stacked beneath the cot, where’d he seen those boxes before …

_‘Now, this Cillian, I understand you’re friends with him, Lieutenant?’ Tasgall, his gaze fixed on the maps he’d covered his tent’s floor with, absentmindedly reaching for a small wooden box lying on his bedroll. _

_‘Yes, Sir,’ he answers, helpfully handing the box over to his captain. There’s an exquisite carving of Andraste on the lid, surrounded by flames, and once opened, the bright blue of the liquid contained in the small vial inside burns itself into his memories. _

_‘I need you to watch him, Lieutenant. Closely.’_

No one just left half of their equipment behind, and especially not their lyrium supply. He backed out of the tent and headed over to Imira who watched the ravens fighting over the corpses.

“My Lady,” Rabbit said quietly. “They’re still around.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“They could be back any second.”

Smiling slightly, she extended a hand, turned the palm upwards and slowly curled her fingers into a fist. Something in the air around her changed, started to _hum_, growing until its wordless tune tickled his skin. Little sparks of electricity scurried about her hand, flickering when they mixed with the rain.

“I do hope so.”

The bushes came alive and the birds fled the metallic song of swords drawn, exasperated caws following them into the sky, from where they watched in anticipation of an even richer meal.

Rabbit and his comrades had formed a semicircle around Imira, blades in outstretched hands. The men emerging from the underbrush looked like they’d seen better days—unshaven, unkempt and dirty, their armours caked in mud and dried blood. Only one of them—Rabbit assumed him to be the leader—had taken an effort to polish his breastplate, brandishing the flaming sword of the templar order. It was him who spoke first.

“I assume you’ve come for your dead.”

“And to find out why you’ve killed them,” Imira said from behind the wall of bared steel and armour.

“So, you want to talk,” he said slowly, his gaze flickering between squared shoulders and evenly spaced feet. _He’s assessing our strength_, Rabbit recognised the strange intimacy opponents shared through looks just before a fight. _Looking for gaps_.

“Forgive me, but surely you understand my doubts when it comes to your intentions? We’re but five men, you’re nine, and you look like you’re ready to attack.”

_He didn’t find any. _

“I assure you, we don’t want to fight,” Imira tried to reaffirm him. 

The templar grinned wolfishly, an expression that was reminiscent of Tasgall. “Tell your soldiers to stand down, and we won’t.”

It was a reasonable request. The Inquisition outnumbered them, they seemed weary, and if it came to a fight, they’d probably lose. Still, stepping to the side when Imira motioned them to lower their weapons, Rabbit felt his fingers clenching around his weapon, barely resisting the urge to keep it between him and them at all costs. The ravens decided on settling down again.

“Why did you kill them?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a demand, and the templar’s grin broadened in response.

“You’re Inquisition,” he said simply.

“The templars aren’t our enemies.”

“Are they not?” he scoffed. “You are declared heretics.”

Imira raised an eyebrow. “By which authority? The Chantry’s? Their word might’ve still held some weight when they decided to denounce us, but since then you templars turned your backs on them.” She shook her head, smiling slightly. “No, out here you’re the same rogues we are.”

“We don’t harbour abominations,” another templar countered.

There seemed to be a slight shift in the air surrounding him, a drop of temperature maybe, as if he’d entered a cellar on a hot summer day. He tried to pin it on the uneasiness lingering between them, the nervousness cramping his fingers around his sword’s hilt, but the ravens showed him differently, black feathers scattering as they took flight.

“Neither do we.”

Time took a deep breath and grew, extended seconds until they became minutes, and then hours filled with the attacking soldiers’ yelling and Imira’s voiceless screams. For she must’ve been screaming, even though no sound left her lips, her face locked and her body twisted in agony. She was struggling to regain her footing on the slippery ground she’d fallen onto, blood spurting from her nose. Rabbit felt a nudge at his elbow when Emmet ran to help her, but another blade caught his and drew him away, leaving her writhing at the templar’s feet.

_Inhumane cries piercing through the smoke, Maker preserve me, whispered prayers as the door swings open, please don’t let it be a demon, please, Maker, please, his sword raised to deliver justice or mercy. Surrounded by smouldering wood, he recognises the shadow, the armour, the laughter. The surprise when he turns around to find him standing in the doorway, Maker, please, please, this isn’t happening, as the screams pause and finally turn into someone else’s, flames burning away the figure that used to be Tasgall. Maker, this isn’t real, as Cillian, wide-eyed, bloody-nosed and covered in vomit, collapses into his arms. _

Lightning flickered and died in Imira’s fingers. She’d gotten back onto one knee, her face still torn in a pained grimace, hands pressed against her stomach. Then, she smiled.

Time exhaled sharply. The seconds sprang back into place, and with them, he rushed forward, blocking a stray blow, ducking and turning and closing the distance, twisting the blade. His pommel hit his opponent’s temple, leaving a dent in his skull. Before the seconds could run the minute, the fight was over, and from above, the ravens celebrated their victory.

He found Imira slumped over the templar’s body, staring at the countless wounds her dagger had left until it’d bitten into his neck.

“My Lady,” Rabbit said quietly.

She raised her head to look at him, her face wet with tears and the rain and her blood, or maybe the templar’s blood, bright red streaks on pale skin. “Hogan wasn’t with them,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Who?”

For a moment, she looked confused. “The young man Emmett nearly shot?”

Her confusion became his. _How does she know his name?_

“No.”

A commotion at the camp’s edge made them turn around. The young man, _Hogan, but how_, had returned, seriously wounded, judging by the way he clutched his belly, heavily leaning on Emmett’s helpful shoulders, only a heartbeat away from passing out.

“But he is now.”

“No,” Imira protested weakly. “He wasn’t one of them. Don’t let him die here.” 

With that, she doubled over and collapsed.

The ravens accompanied them the whole way back to the outpost in the hope to get some reparation for the feast they’d been defrauded of. Some settled down on the cart whenever it got stuck on rocks or sand or simply out of spite, eyeing up the young man thrashing about in his fever, and the boldest one hopped down to peck at Imira’s boots until Emmett chased it away with a stick.

“I don’t even know what’s wrong with her,” he complained, fear trembling in his voice. “Now, him, he’s messed up. But she’s got no wounds, nothing’s broken, I don’t get it.”

She was barely there, her shallow breathing being the only sign she was still alive. At times, her Mark flared up, scaring the ravens and filling the air around them with the same nightmarish sensation the rifts emanated.

_The Fade_, Rabbit mused. _Maybe that’s where she is, hidden away to gather her strength. Like Cillian … He’d nearly died, there and then. _He didn’t share his thoughts with the others, instead spurring on the horses. Cillian’s survival hadn’t mattered in the end, but now, surrounded by barely concealed hopelessness, feeling its smothering embrace himself, he realised hers did. Hers was the world.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ve got mage healers at the camp.” He forced a reassuring smile. “They’ll know how to help her.”

_If we make it there in time. _

They made it, if barely. The healers’ grave expressions as they scurried about the camp did little to stifle the wildfire of rumours that only burned higher with each passing hour. _The Herald’s dying, that templar did something to her magic, she’s exhausted herself_, they whispered. _Maker, we’re lost. _During his night watch, the stump that’d become hers was occupied by dread, threatening them with its emptiness.

Their despair broke late in the morning. It was Emmett who stumbled into his tent, radiating happiness and excitement, and dragged him out of his cot.

“She’s awake,” he beamed, flinging his arms around Rabbit. “Maker’s soggy pants, she’s awake, you were right, you fucking prick!” Out of breath, but still glowing with joy, Emmett let go of him and took a step back. “Oh, and she’s asked to see you.”

Rabbit found her at the camp’s edge, perched on a tree stump next to the horse lines, reading a letter. He suspected the scouts he’d passed on his way here had brought it with them. _Important news_, he concluded,_ too important to entrust them to ravens._ To his surprise, they’d not left the camp again immediately, as was their custom, but instead they’d tied their horses to the others, and looking around he spotted them at the nearest campfire, unmoving, strange and sullen, watching from beneath their hoods.

_Spies_. _Nightingale’s ravens. _What were they waiting for?

_Or rather, who?_

One of the horses snorted, startled by his presence.

“Ah, Rabbit,” Imira greeted him. She seemed to have made a full recovery, even though she still looked a bit pale. “I’ve been wanting to thank you for taking Hogan with us. I hear the others were originally against it.”

“Your orders,” he said simply.

“And you of all people reminded them of it.” She chuckled in disbelief. “He owes you his life.”

Rabbit shrugged. He hadn’t seen the young man since they’d unloaded him from the cart, muttering deliriously, and he was as surprised to hear he still lived as he was about her insistence to save him in the first place. “If I may ask, My Lady—why?”

There was a pause, only filled with the horses’ snorts and pawing, until she finally said, “It was my fault.”

“He’s a rogue templar. His friends attacked us.”

“No,” she disagreed, watching her thumbs tracing the letter’s edges. “You remember that burnt-out village we came across on our way here, the one with the apostates? He was from there. He survived because he hid and got lucky it was us who found him. When he heard who we were, he asked to join us, but I turned him down saying it was too dangerous. I mean, you saw him. He can barely hold a sword.” A sad smile flashed over her face. “What I didn’t realise was that he was already in a far more dangerous place—caught in the middle.”

_Just like all of us._

She sighed. “Anyway. You’ve met our new friends, I presume?” 

Even without her clarifying nod in the scout’s direction he knew who she was talking about, and from her frown he concluded that she, too, was troubled by their presence.

“They don’t trust you,” Rabbit said quietly.

Imira smiled, holding up the piece of paper. It bore the Inquisition’s seal, but he could feel the spymaster hiding underneath, between the carefully lettered words, black-feathered ink screaming the truth, or _a _truth, at least.

“They don’t trust you either.”

It was _the_ truth, then, and the ravens had come for him.

“So, they’re here to arrest me,” he said slowly and watched her smile widen.

“No,” she corrected him, rising from the stump. “Not necessarily, that is. They’re waiting on my judgement.”

He understood. They hadn’t been sure back in Haven, so they’d placed him where he was useful, but could still be watched, with a mage who was powerful enough to stop him should the need arise. Perhaps they’d all already known, toying with him until he provided the proof they wanted to put him on trial. _She had, hadn’t she?_

But now they’d grown tired of their games, or he’d given them what they lacked. Of course, he had: all those mistakes, all his failings she’d so wilfully overlooked, the countless insubordinations she’d let slide, pretending it wasn’t of much importance to her. Though he was sure, now, that she hadn’t forgotten, and here she was, still smiling, examining him intently.

Rabbit recalled the impression Imira had made on him the first time he’d seen her, young and small and frail between the experienced soldiers and the horses, and the spark of death that was lingering behind her eyes. It was there now, too, joined by the knowledge that’d replaced her youth, the power that extended beyond her height and the danger that’d tempered her frailty until she wore it like an armour. She was the Herald, and Rabbit wondered how he could’ve ever hoped to fool her.

Cillian had known, he suddenly remembered. _The mage’s broken body collapsed against a rock, worn out and defeated, his bloodied lips parting in a slight smile. ‘The Maker knows what you did, Rabbit,’ he whispers, widened eyes fixated on the dagger in Rabbit’s hands, gasping as it bites into his heart. ‘I hope … she’s as merciful … as they say.’ _Even then, he’d known his lies wouldn’t last.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“What’s it to be, then, My Lady?”

Her smile turned roguish, and she crumpled the letter in her hands.

“Tell the others to pack up and have their weapons checked and ready. We’ve got a rift to seal.”


End file.
